


Ambient Noise

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathtubs, Hallucinations, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Perhaps if you could procure some azaperone…?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambient Noise

A/N: This is a fill for a [prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=54340708#t54340708): “Sherlock has horrible insomnia in the middle of summer…” (Click the link to read the entire prompt.)  
   
 

   
John wished Sherlock had not chosen one of his white shirts to wear today, to receive their guest. The fabric of those shirts was so fine, one could discern Sherlock’s skin tone through them even when they weren’t damp -- as this one was quickly becoming -- and “patches of visible perspiration while on the job” was not a look that suited anyone down to the ground. A sheen was also forming near Sherlock’s hairline; from where he sat, John could see the individual tiny beads of perspiration.  
   
Across from them, in John’s chair, an actress sobbed. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue from her purse, though dabbing was no longer any use; her fashionably heavy eye makeup was already a lost cause.  
   
“I’m not ash-ashamed of what I did,” she stuttered, “but those pictures were private. It’s not as though I drank four Red Bulls and took my knickers off for _Rolling Stone_.” John wasn’t sure what the connection between those two sentences was. The actress went on. “I have a _reputation_. I am _modest_. I’m not like those other cows who’ll do a three-way call with their agent and a producer to negotiate the price for each exposed nipple. If those pictures make it to the press, I will lose the one thing I have that makes me unique in this business.”  
   
In his peripheral vision, John caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s head dipping, then snapping back up. The actress didn’t seem to notice.  
   
“Hmm, yes,” said Sherlock hastily.  
   
“So you can get them back for me?”  
   
“Get…?” Sherlock tilted his head towards John, as if to ask for help.  
   
John cleared his throat. “It will be difficult. Mister Milverton has his own well-earned reputation.”  
   
“Ah, Milverton,” Sherlock said, struggling to come back to himself. “The bastard.”  
   
John tried to talk over Sherlock’s mumbling. “He’s likely made ten copies of the photos and stashed them away already. And if your ex made any copies, we’d have to deal with him as well. But we can try for you.”  
   
The actress was confused now. She looked back and forth, from Sherlock to John, suddenly unsure what their respective roles were. “I’ll pay you anything,” she said, “if I can just get a guarantee that those photos will never see the light of day.”  
   
“Leave us a number where we can reach you,” John said, handing her a biro and notepad. “We’ll let you know if we can get a foothold.”  
   
With one great final sniffle, the actress wrote her number down, and handed it to John. “You’re the only ones who can help. Thank you so much.” She stood to make her exit, straightened her shoulders. “Mister Holmes. Doctor Watson. Afternoon.”  
   
Once John had securely closed the door after her, he started to say “Nice gir--”  
   
But Sherlock shushed him. He leapt to the door and listened for her descending footsteps, then darted back across the room to the open windows. He peered through the stagnant curtains, unmoved by any breeze, and watched her get in a black SUV with polarised windows.  
   
The moment he was certain that she was gone for good, Sherlock shrugged off his jacket, dropping it on the floor with the sleeves inside-out. He worked the buttons of his sweat-stained shirt free, then discarded it in a similar manner at his feet. He toed off his shoes and shoved down his trousers; beneath them he wore no socks or underwear.  
   
“Christ,” he hissed, and stepped out of the puddle of clothes and into the kitchen, where John met him with a glass of ice water. Sherlock downed it in one go, the ice clinking as he tipped it. He rubbed the cold, wet glass over the planes of his body, wiping the condensation on himself, then, when he felt the vessel served no further purpose, handed it back to John.  
   
“You fell asleep in the middle of that poor girl’s story,” John said.  
   
“I did nothing of the kind.”  
   
“You bloody well did. And when you came to, you had no idea what she was talking about.”  
   
“Perhaps I got distracted in the middle of her completely uninteresting story, because it was so completely uninteresting. But I did not fall asleep.” Sherlock took the glass again. Some of the ice had melted, so there was a sip in it.  
   
“Sherlock, I watched you nod off. I saw it.”  
   
“And I’m telling you I didn’t!” Sherlock snapped. His knuckles went white around the glass, as though he intended to crush it. “And you know how I know? Because I haven’t slept in six days!” Sherlock hurled the glass at the refrigerator, smashing it. “I can’t sleep in this _heat!_ ”  
   
John looked coolly at the glass on the floor, then back to Sherlock, pointing the mess out to him. “What did you do that for? Please tell me, what precisely did that accomplish?”  
   
“You’re right.” Sherlock looked forlornly at the thousand shards on the floor. “There was still ice in that.”  
   
John reached out and gently prodded one of Sherlock’s eyelids with his thumb. He watched the erratic horizontal twitching of the bloodshot eyeball. Nystagmus. Not to mention the peri-orbital puffiness. “It was a microsleep,” he announced. “Your body was trying to sleep, but it can’t. Why didn’t you tell me it had been so long?”  
   
“Because there’s nothing for it.” Sherlock slapped John’s hand away.  
   
“We can go buy one of those portable air conditioners. It’s so simple.”  
   
“I’ve called every shop in London. They’ve all been bought up.”  
   
“Why haven’t you bought one on the internet?”  
   
“Because I can handle this, John!” Sherlock snarled.  
   
“A second ago you said you called every shop in London. That sounds like a man desperate for air conditioning.”  
   
“Whatever. I don’t know what I said. I’m fine. Leave me alone. I’m going to have a shower.”  
   
“Sherlock, the glass!”  
   
Sherlock stopped short of the slowly expanding puddle of ice-water and glass on the floor. He considered it for a moment, then turned on his heel, grabbed the pitcher of water from the table, held it over his head, and dumped it. The cold water pouring over him made him gasp; then he regained his composure, shook the wet hair from his eyes, and said, “Much better.” He stepped casually out, and John heard him going up the stairs.  
   
“For God’s sake,” John called after him, “put some--” He looked into the sitting room, saw the dressing gown still crumpled on the sofa. “--clothes on before you walk out there,” he sighed.  
   
After he’d cleaned up the water and the glass, John took a walk to the chemist to buy some melatonin. On his way, he got a text from Sarah, asking if he could fill in for the afternoon. He texted her back, _Already dealing with a difficult patient, but will be there shortly._ He knew she’d understand what he meant.  
   
When he returned to the flat, he found Sherlock splayed on the sofa, still quite naked. The fan was humming. It occurred to John that he had stopped hearing it days ago, as it had been on non-stop, and had become part of the ambient noise of the flat. “Did you have a proper shower while I was out?”  
   
“Couldn’t,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “Couldn’t walk on the floor.”  
   
“I cleaned up the glass.”  
   
“I know, but the tiles in the bathroom were moving.”  
   
“The tiles…?” John looked into the bathroom. Everything appeared normal. “The tiles aren’t moving,” he said. “It’s just your mind playing tricks, because of the sleep deprivation. Here, I brought you some melatonin.”  
   
“Rubbish,” Sherlock said. “Won’t work for me.”  
   
“I can go back and get some doxylamine if you like.”  
   
“Rubbish.”  
   
“Zolpidem?”  
   
“Rubbish. Unfortunately, my youthful indiscretions have resulted in a stratospheric tolerance for…everything.” Sherlock’s head lolled. “Perhaps if you could procure some azaperone…?”  
   
“For Christ’s sake, I’m not giving you elephant tranquiliser. Look, I have to go to the surgery, just for a few hours. Will you be alright if I leave you here by yourself?”  
   
“Mmm.”  
   
“I’ll re-fill the ice cube trays before I go.”  
   
“Mmm.”

   


*****

 

The surgery was air-conditioned. If Sherlock were any more trustworthy in a public place than the average two-year-old, John would have considered bringing him here. Of course, that would have meant first convincing him to leave the flat. Clothed.  
   
John stopped on the way home and bought a box of instant-breakfast drink mix. He knew Sherlock had been consuming nothing but water. Perhaps with some ice cubes in, Sherlock would consent to ingest an artificially-flavored but somewhat nutritious beverage.  
   
He walked in the front door to find a still-quite-naked Sherlock crouching against Mrs Hudson’s door, his ear pressed to the wood.  
   
“What the hell are you doing? Someone might see you!” John dropped everything he was carrying and grabbed Sherlock around the waist, dragging him away from Mrs Hudson’s door.  
   
“I can’t tell where the bloody music is coming from,” Sherlock slurred.  
   
John pushed Sherlock in front of him, urging him up the stairs. “What music?” Sherlock was stuck swaying on the third step, like some sort of naked, drunken giraffe. John gave him a push with one hand on his skinny behind and moved him along.  
   
“The _music_ , John.” Sherlock stumbled up the stairs.  
   
“I can’t hear anything.”  
   
“I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t find where it’s coming from. It sounds like…” Sherlock hummed atonally.  
   
The flat was a disaster. In John’s absence, Sherlock had torn it apart, apparently in search of the phantom music. Every book was off the shelves. The chairs and sofa had been overturned, the cushions scattered. Papers littered every remaining surface.  
   
And there was no ambient noise. “Sherlock,” John said. “Why isn’t the fan on?”  
   
Next to him, Sherlock cowered and trembled. “I thought the fan was making the music. I unplugged it.”  
   
John examined the sockets, all of them now revealed from behind upturned furniture. Every one was empty. “Did you unplug everything in the flat?” he said.  
   
“Yes, but it wasn’t any help. That’s why I was checking downstairs.”  
   
“Did you unplug the refrigerator?”  
   
“I had to make sure it wasn’t what was making the music!”  
   
John found the refrigerator three feet from the wall, a square crust of crumbs, sludge, and body ash on the floor where it had been. John had to drag it toward the wall to get the plug back into the socket. He looked inside. It hadn’t been unplugged long enough to spoil the food, but there were still no ice cubes in the freezer.  
   
“It must be coming from outside,” Sherlock said.  
   
“Sherlock, don’t you leave this flat naked again!”  
   
“Then you go look!”  
   
“There is no music! You are hallucinating!”  
   
Sherlock grabbed John by his shirt front. “I can hear it!” he roared. “Make it stop, John!”  
   
“Calm down,” John said. He tried to loosen Sherlock’s hands, but they wouldn’t budge. “You need to let go of me and calm down.”  
   
“ _Make it stop make it stop make it stop_.” Tears were streaming from Sherlock’s eyes. John could feel him producing two distinct types of trembling -- the shaking of his shoulders as he sobbed, and the tremors in his hands caused by his sleep deprivation. “ _Make it stop make it stop make it_ \--”  
   
“Alright! Alright, I’m going to do what I can. But you have to calm down. Come here. C’mon, come here.” John drew Sherlock to him, and as if given permission, Sherlock clutched at him and cried harder, his arms hooked under John’s, his fingers clawing into John’s back. He actually had to stoop a little, in order to effectively cry on John’s shoulder. John tried not to think about the silliness of that. He tried to concentrate on the tenderness of this moment, and Sherlock’s painful vulnerability. Sherlock whimpered and gently bit John’s shoulder as he sobbed.  
   
“Shh, shh, it’s alright,” John said, as he swayed back and forth with Sherlock in his arms. “I know, you’re tired. I know. Come here with me, we’re going to put you in the tub.”  
   
“I can’t go in there,” Sherlock rasped. “The tiles are _moving_.”  
   
“Close your eyes. I’ll lead you.” John pried Sherlock fingers from his shirt and gently took both his hands. “We’re going to put you in a cool bath, and you’ll feel better, alright?”  
   
Sherlock sniffled. He kept his eyes closed whilst John led him to the bathroom. John got Sherlock sidled up against the tub.  
   
“You feel where the tub is? Can you step inside?”  
   
Sherlock lifted one foot and gingerly stepped in. “Are the tiles still moving?”  
   
“Obviously they’ve stopped, because if they were still moving you would feel them under your feet, wouldn’t you? But you should keep your eyes closed anyway. I’m going to help you, just sit down here. Put your hands on the sides of the…Yes. Crouch down, it’s alright. Now here comes the cold water.” John turned the bath tap on, then pulled the shower curtain and flicked the lever to turn the shower on instead. Sherlock gasped and sobbed when the cool water sprayed him, but once the initial shock had passed, he groaned with relief.  
   
It took quite a while for the tub to fill. While the water ran, John soaked a flannel in the sink and pressed it to Sherlock’s eyes. The shower was getting him just as wet as it was Sherlock.  
   
“Can we put some ice cubes in?” Sherlock said.  
   
“There are no ice cubes. You remember you unplugged the refrigerator?”  
   
“Why did I do that?”  
   
“You were trying to find where the music was coming from.”  
   
“What music?”  
   
“You said there was music.”  
   
“I don’t remember any music.”  
   
“Just try to stay calm and take deep breaths. I think it’s alright to open your eyes now.”  
   
“Mmm. Bright in here.”  
   
“You want the light off?” John hit the switch, and now the only light came from the tiny window over the toilet.  
   
When the tub was full, John shut the water off, rose to his feet, and said, “I think you’re alright to be left alone now. I’m going to do some tidying up.”  
   
“No,” said Sherlock. “Get in with me.”  
   
“There’s not enough room in the tub for both of us.”  
   
“You have to get in with me.”  
   
“You don’t want me in there. I’m too warm.”  
   
“Get. In. Or the tiles will start moving. The tiles don’t move as long as you’re here.”  
   
“Lean forward, then. I’ll get in behind you.”  
   
Sherlock obeyed, leaning far enough forward to dunk his head and soak his hair while John stripped off and dipped his toe in the water. “Jesus, that’s cold.” He lowered himself into the tub behind Sherlock, a leg on either side of him, trying not to slosh too much newly-displaced water over the side.  
   
Sherlock leaned back abruptly, his wet hair slapping against John’s neck and ear. John tried to gently slick the hair back from Sherlock’s eyes and out of his own face. Traffic noise drifted in through the window. John continued to stroke Sherlock’s hair, and also give him a bit of a shoulder- and neck-rub, though they were too close together to do it properly.  
   
More of Sherlock’s long legs were out of the water than in. One arm was flung over the rim of the tub, the other hand rested protectively over his genitals. John thought it endearing, and smiled. He always found Sherlock like that when he was asleep.  
   
When he was…  
   
“Sherlock?” John listened, and heard the telltale deep, regular rhythm of Sherlock’s breathing. His left leg jerked once, twice, in a sleep twitch, then settled.  
   
Thank God.  
   
Except now that Sherlock was fast asleep, he seemed to weigh twice as much, and John was having trouble breathing beneath him, never mind getting out from under him without disturbing him.  
   
Next to the toilet was a basket with some magazines. John reached out to try to grab one, so he could at least have some entertainment while he was marooned here with Sherlock comatose atop him. But his reach fell short by several feet. He looked around. There was nothing, not so much as a shampoo bottle to read.  
   
John examined his fingers. They were already starting to prune. He sighed, to the best of his ability.


End file.
